The woman moved in closer at his sign of bravado. She was holding him tight, her breasts pressing hard against his chest, her legs close to being entwined around his. They danced, they kissed, and all the time Liam Fogarty could feel the need of the woman. He could see the beauty in the woman, but not the venom in her eyes, the searing hatred that coursed through her veins. He could not realise that the woman was working on him, bringing him to a crescendo.
***
The club where Liam and his woman were dancing was not far from London. It was heaving that night. The music was loud and getting louder, the drinks were flowing, and the noise was overpowering. A residential estate close by had tried to have the noise moderated a few months earlier. They had formed a residents’ committee to make a submission to the local council. They wanted a noise abatement order as the first step, a closure of the club to follow.
A heated meeting in the council offices had come to nothing. A formal notice had been sent to the club. Its owner, Sam Goldsmith, a shrewd businessman who had made his money to the east of London with clubs and discos, legal or otherwise, knew more about local councils than the local residents, led by a busybody by the name of Betty Arkwright, did. She had the law on her side, and a write-up in the local newspaper had garnered widespread support for her and her residents’ committee.
Sam Goldsmith, impervious to the man in the street as long as he could afford his extravagant lifestyle and his two mistresses, cared little for the Arkwright woman and her sanctimonious group of narrow-minded residents. The more they complained, the more he would bribe, by way of cash and trips overseas. The local residents’ committee had no chance just by waving a copy of the Environmental Protection Act 1990 at the council.
Goldsmith knew that more music, the longer trading hours, the increased patronage could only mean one thing: more money for him and the greedy councillors, their snouts in the trough.
***
It was Liam Fogarty’s first time in the club: a celebration with his friends, and he was paying. Not that he minded, as they were good friends he had known since his schooldays. They were still struggling to make their mark, but there he was, regional manager for a multinational bank. It had been hard-won, a lot of sweat and tears, a lot of study and sleepless nights, a lot of time without a woman. However, tonight was his night.
In his drunken mind, the woman he was dancing with was with him because of his self-assuredness. He had noticed her pale complexion; he had certainly seen her breasts, as had his friends. ‘Give them a squeeze for us,’ they had hollered when they had first seen Liam and the woman together.
Liam was drunk, almost close to comatose, but his friends were worse. The club did not tolerate excessive drunkenness officially, but Liam had the money. There were over five hundred in the club that night, and four hundred would probably fail a breathalyser if they attempted to drive home.
‘Do you come here often?’ Liam had asked when he first saw the woman making eyes at him, swaying from side to side to show her assets. He had thought that she would disappear as he made his way towards her, but she did not. He could see a good night ahead. He realised it was a clichéd chat-up line. He had moved in close to the woman, as the noise made it impossible to hold a normal conversation.
‘First time. And you?’
‘Celebrating with my mates. Are you on your own?’ Liam hoped that she was. A promotion and this woman in the one day was more than he could hope for. He imagined her with him, somewhere more comfortable, somewhere more intimate. He had been put down too often in the past, and usually he would have given her a wide berth. His last girlfriend, a pleasant enough woman, had not been as attractive as the one standing in front of him, but he knew that he was not an attractive man.
The last girlfriend, they used to meet on a Friday, and he would sleep over at her place on that night, but apart from that he had not felt any great emotion for her. Not that she was not affectionate, she was, but she came with a history of too many men, too much promiscuity. He had known her at school when she had been slim and cute with firm breasts and a tight arse. Then, she had not wanted to know him, but with time and a preponderance to put on weight, she had changed. When he had met her seven years after leaving school, she had gained twenty pounds and an extra chin, and her body had sagged after the birth of a child that she loved but he could only see as an encumbrance. She had professed love, but he knew the truth. She wanted a provider and a father figure for the child, the result of her promiscuity and a former student at the school they had attended.
Liam knew that when he wanted a child, he would find a good woman, maybe the woman who now had her arms around him.
‘We can dance if you want,’ she said as she kissed him firmly on the mouth. His mates, pretending not to notice but unable to resist, cheered.
The woman looked over at them and smiled. You bastards, she thought.
***
At first the music on the dance floor had been fast and frantic, with arms flying this way and that, but within ten minutes of Liam and the gorgeous black-haired woman hitting the floor, it had slowed, so much so that they had no option but to embrace and to sway with the music.
‘I want you,’ the woman said, her body pressing close to his.
‘We need to go somewhere,’ Liam said.
‘Anywhere is fine by me,’ she said as she pressed in close. She knew the effect she was having on the hapless individual.
‘My place is nearby,’ he said.
‘Too far.’
The conversation continued for several minutes. Garry, one of his drunken friends, attempted to cut in. Liam pushed him away.
‘Go away, find your own woman,’ Liam’s female said. She was almost glued to him now, and her constant gyrations up and down his body had the desired effect.
‘Can I see you again after tonight?’ he asked. He realised the dancing and the movement of his body were starting to reduce the effects of the alcohol. He could not believe his luck. He had looked around the club earlier before he had drunk too much. He had seen some attractive women, but sober he would not have approached them. Too many rejections by the sort of women he fancied had made him reluctant to repeat the process. Too many times had he been told that he was unattractive or fat or he smelt. It was true that his facial features were not good, nor was his body. It was not fat, more like baby fat that had not gone away. He discounted his need for greasy fish and chips and pizzas washed down with beer as the cause. The smell that they complained of he could not understand, but he thought it may be to do with the garlic which he liberally dosed on his food every day.
And now, here he was, with the most attractive woman in the club. He had not seen her on entering; assumed she had come later.
‘Why worry about tomorrow?’ the woman said when Liam persisted with asking her out the following day. She wore a tight blouse and a short skirt, unfashionably short. She knew she looked to be an easy lay, the effect she was trying to create. Five nights she had hidden away to the north of London in flea-bitten accommodation where only money was required and no prying questions were asked. Not that it concerned her, as she was adept at changing her appearance and her behaviour. She knew the medical diagnosis of her mental condition, but they were wrong, part of a plot to belittle her.
It was those bastards who were at fault, not her. She was the sane one, and those who conflicted with her had a limited life span. She intended to rid the world of those who caused her anguish, and as for her parents, they were the worst of them all. She tried to remember them fondly, but she could not. They could wait for another day.
Men were the problem; men who had paid for her body, men who had professed love but only wanted to screw her. Once she had dealt with this one, she would disappear for some time, but she would return.
Gregory Chalmers had treated her badly, as had his bitch wife. Brad Howard, that bitch Gloria’s boyfriend, had come over quickly that night. So much for his faithfulness to her. She had seen him undress
ing her with his eyes before; his death had been pleasurable. She imagined that the man she was with would not be as good as Brad, but she did not intend to waiver.
As she danced close to Liam, the gormless and charmless man, she reminisced. She thought of a happy childhood, until that stupid brother of hers had teased her and then broken her collection of dolls, even pulled the leg off one. She had been ten, too old for dolls, but she had loved her collection, especially the one with the missing leg. He had deserved to die, and she was glad that she had killed him.
And then there was that bitch doctor at St Nicholas who had been pleasant to her, but she had allowed them to attach electrodes to her scalp. She remembered the trembling in her hands and feet; the restraints that held her down. She was meant to be sedated, but sometimes they made a mistake, and the pain of the electricity passing through her body had been unpleasant.
Her parents had visited her, but they never took her back home, other than for short periods. They did not want her, she could see that clearly now, and as for the medication, to hell with it. She knew what it did, how it quietened her down, but she no longer needed it. She had a purpose in life, a purpose to rid the world of all those who had caused her pain and anguish, and this foolish man who thought he could dance. He believed that he was God’s gift to women, but he would not be the first or the last. He would be another marker that she was here and she was determined.
‘There’s a toilet out the back,’ she said. ‘Take me there.’
The idea excited him, although a toilet did not. He imagined a bed with silken sheets, rose petals on the pillow, a bottle of champagne with two glasses.
The club was modern and clean, but the toilet out past the kitchen belonged to another era when the club premises had been part of an industrial complex; it had not been cleaned for some time and smelt. Liam imagined rats and cockroaches, and he did not like them, but the woman was hot and whispering in his ear, then sticking her tongue in his mouth. He wanted to be somewhere else with her, and his place was only five minutes away. The woman came closer, put his hand on one of her breasts. The desire to make love to the woman was overpowering.
She pushed him down on the toilet seat, pulling his trousers down to his ankles. He was erect and ready. She straddled him with no foreplay.
‘Just stay there for me,’ she said.
He sat still while he maintained his erection.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said gasping for breath. The woman was beautiful, even if the surroundings were not. He was aflame and unable to hold out for much longer.
‘Are you ready for your surprise?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
The woman put one hand inside the small bag she carried. She waited for him to be at his peak, and then she thrust the thin stiletto knife into his chest. Liam, at the moment of death, clutched the knife with one hand in an attempt to remove it.
The woman removed herself from the man and put one of her fingers on the blood oozing from his body.
The toilet was concealed from general view. On leaving it she found a tap outside. She removed the clothes she was wearing, washed herself down, put on fresh clothes that had been in the small bag, and walked out of the building by way of a back gate.
She smiled as she walked away, only to break into song after a couple of minutes. Liam thought he was a stud until I stuck a knife in his heart.
Chapter 12
‘George Street, Richmond!’ Sara Stanforth said over the phone to Sean O’Riordan. She had already phoned Keith Greenstreet and given him the same directive. Crime Scene Examiner Stan Crosley had also been notified.
‘What is it?’ Sean asked. It was one in the morning, and he was still studying. There was an important exam the next week, and he knew he was not ready.
‘Joey’s.’
‘I know it,’ Sean said. He had been there with his friends some years before.
‘There’s been another murder.’
‘Charlotte Hamilton?’
‘It looks that way. We’ll have a clearer idea out at the scene. The local police are securing the crime scene and rounding up the patrons. They are none too happy from what I’ve been told, but if it’s her, she’s been out in public and very visible.’
‘Someone must have seen her,’ Sean said. He was dressing as he spoke. His girlfriend woke to ask what was going on. ‘The usual,’ his reply. She had become used to the hours that he worked, and rolled over and went back to sleep. He thought she looked delightful lying curled up in his bed, but now was not the time for romance.
It was only three days since Keith had returned from Newcastle. Three days when the team had mostly stayed in the office analysing, debating, and trying to come up with a plan on how to find this woman.
There were extra police out on the street, and random door knocks had been conducted, but nothing. The woman baffled them with her ability to appear and disappear at will.
Keith was first at the murder scene as he only lived two miles away. Sara arrived shortly after. Sean was two minutes later. Bob Marshall came as well in Sara’s car.
‘What do we have?’ Bob asked.
It was Keith who replied. ‘Male in his thirties.’
‘Fatal?’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Keith replied.
‘Then we’d better take a look,’ Sara said. She went round to the back of her car and took out gloves and foot protectors. The local police had waylaid the patrons, or at least those that had not sneaked around the cordon and down a side alley.
‘It will take some time to interview all of them,’ Sean said.
‘We have to whether they like it or not,’ Sara reminded him.
Two uniforms were outside the main door, another at the back of the building.
‘Who found the body?’ Sara asked.
‘One of the cooks. It appears he went out back for a cigarette. That’s when he found it.’
The four police officers moved through the club and out to the back. The cook, a big man who looked tough but had proven himself not to be, was sitting quietly. The dead body had upset him.
Careful not to disturb the evidence, the four police officers approached by a circuitous route. Standing on the other side of the yard, with the toilet door slightly ajar, they could see the body sitting on the toilet, the head drooped forward. There appeared to be a lot of blood.
‘I need to check,’ Sara said. She was aware of the CSE’s reaction if he saw her, but she needed to know. Close up, she could see the knife in the man’s body. She looked around, a small torch in her hand, as there was no light inside, and it was still night.
‘It’s here,’ she said.
‘What’s the number?’ Sean asked.
‘4.’
‘Rowsome is going to have my guts for garters after this,’ Bob said, knowing full well the man’s venomous tongue, a man short on praise, long on criticism.
This was his department, and his SIO, someone he had protected from criticism, and yet again the woman had come into his patch and committed murder, and from all accounts, in sight of five hundred patrons at the busiest club in the area.
Bob Marshall knew what was coming: an immediate directive to remove Sara from the senior role.
Sara, equally aware of what was to happen, but not willing to relinquish control without a fight, focussed on the job in hand.
Stan Crosley had arrived, and he was ushering them out of the area. ‘I’ve got work to do. The same woman?’ he asked.
‘It looks to be that way,’ Sara replied.
‘Can’t you find her?’ his sarcastic response.
Out front, the patrons were getting restless. Most had been drunk or close to it, and the alcohol was slowly wearing off. The local police had identified the friends of the dead man. They were off to one side.
As for the other patrons, the local police could interview them, check proof of identity and ask the mandatory questions: did you see anything suspicious
, did you visit the back of the club at any time, did you see a woman with the dead man? One of the dead man’s friends had supplied a picture from his smartphone.
‘Liam,’ one of the friends said. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘What can you tell me about the woman?’ Sara asked. Sean was interviewing another of the friends. Keith was dealing with two others.
‘We saw her, of course. Liam never had much success with women, and there he is with a looker.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘It’s hard. We were all drunk, celebrating Liam’s promotion at work. He had just been made regional manager, and the drinks were on him. Anyway, this woman starts wrapping herself around him.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Slim, extremely attractive, especially to us drunks.’
‘She’s attractive, even without alcohol.’
‘You know her?’ the friend asked.
‘Not personally, but we know what she is capable of.’
‘And she killed Liam?’
‘Subject to confirmation.’
Liam’s friend Ken was slowly recovering from his drunkenness. Sara organised a coffee for him, one for her. One of the uniforms obliged and went and found a café still open, or it had opened once it had seen the milling throng out on the street.
‘Ironic, I suppose,’ Ken said.
‘What do you mean?’ Sara asked.
‘The first time he finds an attractive woman, and she kills him. Is it the one on the news?’
‘It seems possible,’ Sara replied, not wanting to comment too much, knowing full well that the media would certainly grab Ken for an interview.
‘Mind you, she wasn’t attracted to him for his charm, was she?’ Ken said.
‘No.’
‘I tried to move him away from her on the dance floor. The woman told me to find my own woman. If I had succeeded, it would be me dead now.’
‘Probably.’ A one-word reply from Sara.
‘Why does she do this?’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 70
